Vet in Harness Read online

  Vet in Harness [112-066-4.0]

  By: James Herriot

  Synopsis:

  James is now married, and he and Helen live on the top floor of Skeldale

  House, while his former boss, now partner, lives downstairs. James

  continues the rich and rewarding day-to-day life of a small-town

  veterinarian, with the usual menagerie of farm animals, pets and owners

  demanding his constant attention, and teaching him a few lessons along

  the way.

  With love To MY MOTHER In dear old Glasgow town

  Chapter One.

  As I crawled into bed and put my arm around Helen it occurred to me, not

  for the first time, that there are few pleasures in this world to

  compare with snuggling up to a nice woman when you are half frozen.

  There weren't any electric blankets in the thirties Which was a pity

  because nobody needed the things more than country vets. It is

  surprising how deeply bone-marrow cold a man can get when he is dragged

  from his bed in the small hours and made to strip off in farm buildings

  when his metabolism is at a low ebb. Often the worst part was coming

  back to bed; I often lay exhausted for over an hour, longing for sleep

  but kept awake until my icy limbs and feet had thawed out.

  But since my marriage such things were but a dark memory. Helen stirred

  in her sleep - she had got used to her husband leaving her in the night

  and returning like a blast from the North Pole - and instinctively moved

  nearer to me. With a sigh of thankfulness I felt the blissful warmth

  envelop me and almost immediately the events of the last two hours began

  to recede into unreality.

  It had started with the aggressive shrilling of the bedside phone at one

  a.m. And it was Sunday morning, a not unusual time for some farmers

  after a late Saturday night to have a look round their stock and decide

  to send for the vet.

  This time it was Harold Ingledew. And it struck me right away that he

  would have just about had time to get back to his farm after his ten

  pints at the Four Horse Shoes where they weren't too fussy about closing

  time.

  And there was a significant slurr in the thin croak of his voice.

  "I 'ave a ewe amiss. Will you come?'

  "Is she very bad?' In my semi-conscious state I always clung to the

  faint hope that one night somebody would say it would wait till morning.

  It had never happened yet and it didn't happen now: Mr. Ingledew was not

  to be denied.

  "Aye, she's in a bad way. She'll have to have summat done for 'er soon.'

  Not a minute to lose, I thought bitterly. But she had probably been in a

  bad way all the evening when Harold was out carousing.

  Still, there were compensations. A sick sheep didn't present any great

  threat. It was worst when you had to get out of bed facing the prospect

  of a spell of sheer hard labour in your enfeebled state. But in this

  case I was confident that I would be able to adopt my half-awake

  technique, which meant simply that I would be able to go out there and

  deal with the emergency and return between the sheets while still

  enjoying many of the benefits of sleep.

  There was so much night work in country practice that I had been

  compelled to perfect this system as, I suspect, had many of my fellow

  practitioners. I had one some sterling work while in a somnambulistic

  limbo.

  So, eyes closed, I tiptoed across the carpet and pulled on my working

  clothes. effortlessly accomplished the journey down the long flights of

  stairs but when I opened the side door the system began to crumble,

  because even in the shelter of the high-walled garden the wind struck at

  me with savage force. It was difficult to stay asleep.

  In the yard as I backed out of the garage the high ranches of the elms

  groaned in the darkness as they bent before the blast.

  Driving from the town I managed to slip back into my trance and my mi'

  played lazily with the phenomenon of Harold Ingledew. This drinking of t

  was so out of character. He was a tiny mouse of a man about seventy

  years ol and when he came into the surgery on an occasional market day

  it was difficult to extract more than a few muttered words from him.

  Dressed in his best suit his scrawny neck protruding from a shirt collar

  several sizes too big for him, was the very picture of a meek and solid

  citizen; the watery blue eyes a~ fleshless cheeks added to the effect

  and only the brilliant red colouration of t tip of his nose gave any

  hint of other possibilities.

  His fellow smallholders in Therby village were all steady characters and

  d not indulge beyond a social glass of beer now and then, and his next

  door neighbour had been somewhat bitter when he spoke to me a few weeks

  ago.

  "He's nowt but a bloody nuisance is awd Harold.'

  "How do you mean?'

  "Well, every Saturday night and every market night he's up roarin' and

  sin~ till four o'clock in the mornin'.'

  "Harold Ingledew? Surely not! He's such a quiet little chap.'

  "Aye, he is for the rest of "'week.'

  "But I can't imagine him singing!'

  "You should live next door to 'im, Mr Herriot. He makes a 'elf of a rack

  There's no sleep for anybody till he settles down.'

  Since then I had heard from another source that this was perfectly true

  a that Mrs Ingledew tolerated it because her husband was entirely

  submissive all other times.

  The road to Therby had a few sharp little switchbacks before-it dipped

  to t village and looking down I could see the long row of silent houses

  curving aw to the base of the fell which by day hung in peaceful green

  majesty over t huddle of roofs but now bulked black and menacing under

  the moon.

  As I stepped from the car and hurried round to the back of the house t

  wind caught at me again, jerking me to wakefulness as though somebody h

  thrown a bucket of water over me. But for a moment I forgot the cold in

  t feeling of shock as the noise struck me. Singing .. . Loud raucous

  singing echoing around the old stones of the yard.

  It was coming from the lighted kitchen window.

  JUST A SONG AT TWILIGHT, WHEN THE LIGHTS ARE LOW!

  I looked inside and saw little Harold sitting,with his stockinged feet

  extent towards the dying embers of the fire while one hand clutched a

  bottle of brown' ale.

  AND THE FLICKERING SHADOWS SOFTLY COME AND Go!' He was really letting'

  rip, head back, mouth wide.

  I thumped on the kitchen door.

  THOUGH THE HEART BE WEARY, SAD THE DAY AND LONG!' replied Harold's ret

  tenor and I banged impatiently at the woodwork again.

  The noise ceased and I waited an unbelievably long time till I heard the

  I turning and the bolt rattling back. The little man pushed his nose out

  and me a questioning look.

  "I've come to see your sheep,' I said.

  "Oh aye.' He nodded curtly with none of his usual diffidence. "Ah'll put

  boots